


An Unmitigated Disaster

by apacketofseeds



Category: Knowing Me Knowing You with Alan Partridge (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:33:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26596081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apacketofseeds/pseuds/apacketofseeds
Summary: Alan spills taramasalata on his tie before a show. Glen helps.
Relationships: Alan Partridge/Glen Ponder
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1
Collections: Fandom Giftbox 2020





	An Unmitigated Disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saturni_stellis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturni_stellis/gifts).



> Your enthusiasm for Alan makes me so happy. I hope you enjoy this ficlet!

Time slows to a trickle. Alan’s breath sticks in his throat as a single bead of sweat descends his temple.

He would do anything, _anything_ , to wind time back thirty seconds with the knowledge that, if he dips his breadstick into the tub of taramasalata, it’ll crumble in his too-tight, too-sweaty pre-show grip and fall, smearing pink, greasy roe down his favourite tie. 

It’s happened, though. His tie’s paid the price for his stupidity. 

Though, nothing’s ever that simple, is it? Someone purchased breadsticks of subpar quality, unable to withstand the grip of an adult male. Someone thought it’d be a good idea to bring a platter of messy snack foods to his dressing room half an hour before they go live. This was most certainly someone else’s fault. 

The costume girl, Sarah—who doubles up as a makeup girl, hairdresser, and even cleaner, all within the gloriously unpaid verbal agreement called “work experience”—darts back and forth from Alan’s wardrobe to where he’s sitting beside the hazardous platter, presenting tie after tie while his refusals get progressively louder. 

“No . . . No . . . Absolutely not! . . . Are you clinically insane?”

Once she gets to the last tie of the dozen and Alan refuses that one too (taking the opportunity to tell her what a stupid, worthless girl she is), she leaves in tears. No doubt she’ll tell the others what a monster he is, and no doubt they’ll have something to say about that behind his back, but he’s the star of this show, and she really should’ve provided him with more than twelve ties.

Alan briefly considers flipping the platter onto the floor. Showbusiness people do that kind of thing, don’t they? But there’s a ramekin of diced cheddar that looks appetizing. It’d be a shame to waste it. 

“Guess I’ll take it off myself, then,” Alan mumbles, sliding the knot of his tie halfway down, careful not to drag it through the salmon-pink residue. 

He looks practically naked without a tie. There’s no way he’s going on without one. It’s just not that kind of show. He’ll have to settle for one of those twelve, won’t he? If Sarah had a salary, he’d have docked it for that. He could fire her of course, but she makes a really good cup of coffee. No, that’s stupid. A _decent_ cup of coffee.

“What’s all the commotion?” Glen asks, stepping through the door Sarah’s left open. She’s still wailing at the end of the corridor like a trapped dog.

Alan straightens up immediately. “I hired a dresser who doesn’t know what looks good on me. I mean—” he’s pacing now “—how am I supposed to sing with Gina bloody Langland without a decent tie? I’ll be a laughingstock!”

“Alan.” 

Alan jolts, because Glen’s hand is on his arm and he hadn’t noticed him step closer. Besides, he’s not used to people touching him so brazenly. 

“Don’t worry, okay? We’ll get you another tie.” 

“It’s not that simple,” Alan sighs, shaking his head. That was the tie he’d chosen. That was the tie they’d rehearsed in. Everything had to be just so, and if it wasn’t . . . “If I don’t have the right tie, I won’t be— I’ll get distracted, I’ll.” He pauses to draw breath, to find the words, and Glen squeezes his arm in reassurance. 

“Want to borrow one of mine?” Glen asks calmly. He glances at the grease-silk disaster Alan’s flung beside the platter, the loop hanging from the table like a noose. An omen.

A little . . . intimate, isn’t it, dipping into another man’s tie collection? Alan wouldn’t share his if it were the other way around. Besides, Glen’s are always a bit showy, a bit too bright. They wouldn’t suit him. Though, the one Glen’s wearing isn’t far removed from the one Alan’s ruined. Correction: the one whoever had the bright idea to give him taramasalata ruined. 

“What about this one?” Alan asks, tipping his head toward the lavender tie around Glen’s neck. Its knot is square and loose, much bulkier than how Alan styles his. 

“You’re more than welcome to it,” Glen says, already sliding the knot down, the leaves of his collar lifting from where they’d been pressed to his neck. “If it’ll calm you down.” 

Alan blinks, watching Glen’s fingers work the silk. He unfastens a tie with the same elegance as he presses a piano’s keys or strums a guitar. It’s almost hypnotic. “I-it will,” Alan stammers. “It will calm me down.”

“Lift your chin,” Glen says under his breath, as he folds Alan’s collar up against his throat. Alan obeys, giving him access to his neck. And how is it that Glen always manages to step into his personal space without him noticing? 

Glen’s never stood this close before. His fingertip lifts Alan’s chin so he can better see what he’s doing, and the touch, while fleeting, is incredibly tender. The sensation lingers, too. Where Glen’s skin makes contact feels like a brand, heat radiating long after. Glen’s gaze is heavy, his face too close and somehow not close enough. He sweeps Alan’s collar back into place, but his hand pauses on Alan’s throat, thumb gently pressing at his neck as if feeling his pulse. Alan swallows, stares at a patch of peeling wallpaper over Glen’s shoulder, then back into Glen’s eyes. 

“There.” Glen whispers. “Better now?” 

It’s hard to tear himself from Glen’s admiring gaze, but he manages. A glance in the mirror confirms that Glen’s tie is a smash hit. The lavender goes beautifully with his blazer’s maroon and the powdery yet masculine blue of his shirt. He nods at Glen’s reflection.

“Keep it,” Glen says, turning to leave.

“I couldn’t!” 

“You could, and you will.” 

As Glen leaves, a more composed Sarah enters, enough ties to deck out a Fosters Menswear draped over her arm. God knows where she found them. She stops in her tracks, head jerking back when she spots the fancy new neckwear Alan’s sporting.

“Oh,” she says, though more in relief than defeat. “Is there anything else you need before you go on, Mr Partridge?” 

Alan opts for the only thing Sarah’s good for. “Coffee,” he says, omitting the please, and turns back to the mirror.


End file.
